Free Shadowmoor (de Lohr Dynasty #6) by Kathryn Le Veque Page B

as it perched upon the crag like a great beast of prey. He scratched his head.
    “That old castle is the only thing up here,” he said. “Did you come from it?”
    “If I did?”
    “It was simply a question, mon seigneur .”
    They asked about Shadowmoor, which tipped Brynner off that these men may be exactly who he feared they were. Bramley. He was feeling vastly threatened and trying not to let it show. He had been a knight, once, and a very good one, and that training began to kick in. It had been a long time since he’d needed it. He forced himself to calm and collect himself because panic would only get him killed. Slowly, he stood up, trying to brush the mud off of his breeches.
    “That castle means nothing to me and I mean nothing to it,” he said evenly. “I will be on my way now.”
    He started to move, pushing his way out from between the horses. But the Frenchman wouldn’t let him go so easily.
    “Wait,” he said. “Please do not go, not yet. What is your name? Can we at least be civil to one another?”
    Brynner paused to look at him. “Why?” he asked. “You mean nothing to me, either.”
    The Frenchman smiled at the answer. The dirty, disheveled man on foot was so bitter that it was rather amusing. “And you mean nothing to me,” he said. “But I would like to know if you know anything about that castle up there. Have you been out here walking the moors for very long?”
    Brynner shook his head. “Not very long.”
    “Have you seen anyone come to, or leave, the castle?”
    Brynner’s expression turned impatient. “No one comes or goes from that place,” he said. “It is dead, like these moors. People live there, but they are dead, too. The whole place is dead.”
    “You speak as if you know this for certain.”
    Brynner thought, at that point, that he had probably given too much of himself away. He had tried not to but his head hurt and he wasn’t thinking clearly. But, then again, he rarely thought clearly these days, so it was inevitable that he falter. Now it was a matter of trying to cover for his foolish tongue.
    “I have grown up on these lands,” Brynner said. He was being deliberately vague and, in a smart move, turned the conversation away from him and on to them. “Where did you come from? These roads are not well traveled. You must have been heading for the castle if you are on this moor. What business do you have at that place?”
    The Frenchman’s dark blue eyes settled appraisingly on Brynner before speaking. The wind, whipping around them, lifted his shaggy blond hair.
    “As you said, that is not your affair,” he replied. “You will not tell me yours and I will not tell you mine. We are at an impasse.”
    Brynner shrugged and turned away. “Good,” he said firmly. “Then there is no more to say to one another. I will wish you fair winds and Godspeed, then, and be on my way.”
    One of the men moved his horse so that Brynner couldn’t push past the animal. Boxed in and frustrated, Brynner turned to the Frenchman with a scowl.
    “Now what?” he demanded. “I have nothing more to tell you. My aching head and I would be grateful if you could allow us to pass.”
    The Frenchman leaned forward on his saddle, noticing a jug that had fallen to the side when the man had slid down the hill. It now lay half-buried in the wet heather. He dipped his head in the direction of the jug.
    “The root of your evils, mon seigneur ?” he asked.
    Brynner turned to see what he was referring to, embarrassed that the evidence was there for all to see. He may have been a drunkard but it was a private affair as far as he was concerned. He didn’t like to go announcing it all over the place. In a huff, he stomped over to pick up the jug. Embarrassed or not, he wasn’t going to leave it behind.
    “It is the root of many evils,” he said, bending down to collect it. “May I go now?”
    The Frenchman’s gaze lingered on Brynner and, for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Behind